


Temporary Release

by juunnyy



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bullying, Cocaine, Depression, Developing Relationship, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Gay, Hand Jobs, Implied Relationships, M/M, Obsession, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Self Harm, Sexual Harassment, Smut, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Unresolved Sexual Tension, self injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:16:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juunnyy/pseuds/juunnyy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock leaves John and Mary's wedding early because he feels alone. He needs someone and something to fix the depressive mood he's in, so he texts an old enemy that he can't seem to get enough of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> -Lets pretend Sherlock already knows Moriarty faked his death too.-
> 
> Btw, I don't have a Beta so there may be some mistakes, maybe, i hope not though. 
> 
> Enjoy. :-)

After the wedding, he made his way back to Baker Street, having spent the day feeling John’s grasp gradually slip further away from him, he needed something to snap him out of this desolation. As he sat in the cab, without his friend sitting beside him, it dawned on him that he knew exactly how to fix the problem. Well, at least delay it for a while.

He needed a familiar face, one that would be willing to put up with him. There was no denying that he still felt something for the man who forced him to abandon everyone he held most dear, to escape across the world only to be tortured. Thinking about it on the whole, it was a bit fucked up to want to see him again, but that’s just who we was, he wasn’t normal, so he didn’t deserve someone safe and ordinary. He was attracted to the danger; he needed it to keep him on the edge, to make him feel alive in a time when he’d longed for darkness to envelope him.

Sitting down on the couch, he took out his mobile and typed with a slight shake in his fingertips.

_I need you. SH_

He laid back and waited, his heart began to beat unsteadily. The flat was dark, as if he was underground and the faint glimmer of moonlight through the windows didn’t stop it feeling as if they were boarded up, with the walls closing in on him. He felt claustrophobic yet exposed; he cursed his own weakness, his emotions are meant to stay in his head, locked away somewhere out of reach, but someone had broken in, taken everything he had and let the darkness see the man he really was. Broken and depressed.

-

It was unknown how long he’d been asleep for, but what really mattered was what brought him out of his slumber; one hand caressing his hollow cheek, as he lay with his head resting on the back of the couch. With a sharp intake of breath, he lifted his head up and into the caring touch. After a few seconds, the depressing realisation that is wasn't John set in, however bringing with it a tinge of excitement knowing that the man in front of him knew exactly what to do to make him better.

“You worried me for a second,” His distinctive voice broke the silence. He wasn’t alone anymore. “You look like a corpse when you’re asleep,” his lips hovered up the side of his neck before reaching his ear, “So beautiful,”

Sherlock could only groan in response, he needed something right now. 

“Silly little Johnny, what has he done to you. Don’t worry, you’ve got me,” his predatory smile on show through the dim light, “You’ll always have me,”

Sherlock let himself smile; it was mightily uncomfortable, the skin of his cheeks stretching tightly as if he wasn't made to do just that. His eyes flickered over to the bag the villain had brought with him, and his action didn’t go unnoticed.

“I brought your favourite,” 

“Oh Jim,” Sherlock breathed out heavily and wrapped his arms around the man kneeling in front of him. Before John, he wouldn’t have needed the human contact; he would be perfectly fine staying to himself, not needing anyone. But now he longed for it; he seized it hungrily and relished it. He devoured the feeling of Jim pressed against his chest, their arms wrapped tightly around each other as if one was about to fall. Sherlock breathed in his smell and lifted a hand to his hair, sliding his fingers through the dark locks and hooking onto them possessively.

“You can have all of me later,” Jim stated, as he moved one hand from Sherlock’s back and onto his bag. Sherlock tensed from the thrill of the rustling. He drew back from the needy embrace and looked eagerly at the drugs Jim had begun laying out on the coffee table. There was more than enough cocaine and the sight of it made Sherlock shiver in anticipation. The thought of the high, the energy and the euphoria; the buzz through his veins; He needed it now.

“Inject me,” Sherlock gulped when he realised his hands would be too shaky to build up his own solution and puncture the vein. Jim looked up at him with hungry eyes before he fixed the solution and checked for air bubbled in the syringe. He sat back down in front of Sherlock and ran a soothing hand up his thigh. Sherlock’s dishevelled hair hung over his face, his face a picture of despair and need, the urgency was in his eyes and Jim knew every second for him was painful. He took Sherlock’s arm and undid the cuff of his shirt and rolled the expensive fabric up his arm.

“Just relax,” Jim said as he unbuckled his belt and pulled it off, only to slip it over Sherlock’s slim arm and tighten it again. “It’ll be better soon,” his soft but menacing voice pierced through the darkness just as the needle did the same. The strong solution plunged into his veins and made Sherlock gasp in relief. Jim created his own weaker solution and did the same to himself, letting the cocaine take him to a better place.

Jim moved so he was sitting on the sofa and pulled Sherlock down so he was sprawled out on his lap. His feelings for Sherlock were conflicted; they were enemies set out to destroy each other, yet if they really were without each other, they wouldn’t survive. Sherlock would always need him, when John’s long gone; Sherlock will always come back rest his boundaries around the dangerous man he’d sworn he’d kill so many times before. Right now, he was Jim, he let his obsession with the consulting detective show, he ran his hands over the gorgeous human being laying helplessly over him and right then he understood how lucky he was. Sherlock was willing to do anything to stop feeling emotional pain, even if it mean it caused him physical pain in the process. 

Jim couldn’t wait for John to see the state that he had put Sherlock in; he couldn’t wait to see the guilt, the worry, and the anger. But by then, Moriarty would have Sherlock completely. Destruction doesn’t always mean murder.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Jim manipulates Sherlock into digging back up old habits, Sherlock eventually gives himself fully to Jim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for self harm, dub-con & drug use.

“Sherlock,”

His eyes flickered open as a cold hand touched his forehead.

“Didn’t want you drifting away just yet,” Jim said softly as he shuffled so that Sherlock’s head was off his lap and lying on the couch.

“Why is everything so bright?” Sherlock asked as he used his arm to cover his eyes.

“I turned the light on,” Jim laughed.

“Oh,” Sherlock pulled himself up and turned towards the coffee table where there were two lines of cocaine. 

“Thank you, for doing this,” Sherlock sighed as he slid down onto his knees in front of the table. Holding down one of his nostrils he sniffed up the powder before watching Jim do the same. When he’d finished they pulled each other in for a deep kiss, it was passionate and thrilling; something Sherlock hadn’t experienced for a long time. In actual fact, he couldn’t recall many other people he’d kissed, there was one man in university, but that didn’t end well, he’d been close to kissing John so many times but that obviously never developed.

He’d never had sex. It never used to cross his mind, he was always so consumed by other things that sex was the last thing he’d even bother to think about. People have wanted to have sex with him, and they’d made it quite obvious, but he’d just shoot them a grimace and turn away. However, lately he’d started to wonder. He wondered what it would be like to feel something so intense, it would be just like taking drugs. He’d always craved the high.

As a sudden rush of emotions overwhelmed Sherlock, he ripped away from the kiss. Jim looked disappointed and confused but when he saw Sherlock holding his head in his hands, he felt an unusual sense of empathy. 

“Why is it not working?” Sherlock gritted his teeth, “It’s meant to be fucking working!” 

Jim pulled him towards his chest and buried his face in his hair. Even he was taken aback by the display of emotions on the usually detached detective. It put him off-course for a few seconds but he was soon brought back when he set eyes back on his bag. 

Jim grabbed it and pulled out a small plastic container while Sherlock sobbed into his chest.

“Keep trying,” Jim opened the container and Sherlock looked up with his red-rimmed eyes. “It’ll come to you eventually,” 

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly when he saw the blades lined up in a neat row in the container. He was hesitant for a moment. John would be disappointed. But this high wasn’t enough, he needed more, he needed to forget. Maybe the voices in his head would shut up; stop telling him he’s useless, worthless, broken. It had always helped before so there was no reason why it wouldn’t this time. He hadn’t done it for nearly a year now, he had been proud of himself but that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters apart from the high. In a weird way, he trusted Jim.

“Take one, do it, it makes everything better and you know it,” The tone in Jim’s voice was dark and intimidating, with just a touch of sincerity. “We can do it together,”  
Sherlock reached out and took a blade from the box. It was new, and very sharp. Jim took a blade for himself and then looked at Sherlock like a predator. Jim slid the blade over his arm, keeping his eyes on Sherlock so he could see his reaction. The look of shock excited him. Only when he looked down he noticed he’d gone a bit deeper than he’d intended to, but he didn’t bandage it up, instead he lifted his arm up and licked the blood that trickled down towards his elbow. 

“I feel better already. Just do it, I know you’ve missed it,” Jim stated, “The pain. You’re dying for it,” 

As Sherlock looked into Jim’s eyes he could almost see him change into Moriarty; the powerful and manipulative criminal. But Sherlock felt something for him that he couldn’t put his finger on, he didn’t understand what it was, it wasn’t the same way he felt about John, but it was something close. 

The detective stood up from the floor and walked over to the lamp, switching it off so there was only a dim light illuminating the room. He sat on the couch and let Jim nuzzle his head against his thigh, watching intently as Sherlock brought the blade down onto his scarred skin and broke it apart, leaving dark red lines of blood along them. 

When he’d made seven deep cuts, he placed the blade back onto the table and sank back into the couch. Then it hit him, the euphoric high. His arm swelled up in pain and it was perfect; the pain was in his arm and not in his head. Along with the effects of the cocaine, he drifted away into his mind palace, the doors were broken down but he didn’t care. Someone had broken in and taken every emotion he had felt that night and he didn’t care. He saw John and Mary kissing at the altar and he didn’t care. Mycroft was shouting at him, telling him he was stupid and a disappointment, but he didn’t care.   
Everything was fine.

-

In the morning however, everything was not fine. Jim knew this was the worst part, and this would be when Sherlock needed him the most.

“Oh it looks like Johnny boy’s been worried, poor him, on his wedding night… Oh well,” Jim tossed Sherlock’s phone onto the couch and wandered into the kitchen to make some tea.

The drugs were left on the table, along with the blades and the sight of it all brought Sherlock right back to where he started; feeling the exact same way he had been feeling after leaving the wedding. Depressed.

“Don’t look so down, Sherly. Don’t worry; you’ll get another fix again soon. Right now however, I’m going to have a bath, don’t hesitate to join me,” Jim’s spoke eagerly as he carried his and Sherlock’s teas into the bathroom with him.

When Jim was gone from sight, Sherlock grabbed his mobile and opened John’s texts.

_Did you leave early? I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. JW_

_Are you alright? Molly said you looked a bit sad. JW_

Sherlock’s heart ached. He didn’t know what he’d say to him, he couldn’t lie but he didn’t want to ruin anything either. It was best to just leave him and Mary to get on with their lives; they didn’t need him getting in the way. He didn’t need John to look after him, plus, he had Jim now.

Jim.

He could hear the splash of water from Jim getting in the bath. Sherlock stood up from the couch and turned his phone off, placing it down on the drug-filled table and walked towards the bathroom. He hesitated outside the door, took a deep breath and then walked in.

Sherlock’s breath hitched as he was met by the sight of Jim laying in the bath, completely naked. 

“Don’t be shy,” Jim said in a soft voice. “There’s enough space for two,”

Sherlock began undoing the buttons on his shirt as Jim watched him intently while sipping his tea. He winced as the fabric scraped over the painful cuts on his arm, failing to keep a straight face as he did so. He threw his shirt and trousers onto Jim’s pile of clothes and as he hooked his fingers around the waistband of his underwear, he heard Jim exhale loudly. 

“You’re gorgeous,” he groaned as Sherlock slid his underwear down his slim legs.

Sherlock self-consciously climbed into the bath and settled himself down opposite Jim. He’d forgotten how much his arm would sting when it hit the warm water. He groaned in pain as he lowered it down so it was completely under the water and waited until the pain subsided. Jim moved forward and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead before squirting some shower gel onto his hands and began to slide his hands over the detective’s shoulders. 

Even though Jim’s hands felt nice on his body, Sherlock could feel himself becoming more distant. He felt numb after the pain of his arm dispersed. He felt like he didn’t deserve this. He lay back against the bathtub, snaking his legs around Jim’s and letting himself be touched.

He was annoyed at himself for not being able to stay happy for just a few minutes. He wanted to be content, laying in the bath with a man who wants him; but he couldn’t.   
He closed his eyes and imagined that the hands roaming over his body were John’s. They could have been at this point already if only he hadn’t had to fake his suicide, and if Mary hadn’t come along. It could have been John kissing him tenderly, wrapping his legs around him and embracing him warmly. He cursed himself for thinking about it again. 

John was happy and he didn’t need him. Sherlock was a nuisance, that’s all he ever was to John. An itch he couldn’t stop, a mosquito drawing out all the blood John had left in his body, eventually he’d be empty and lifeless. Sherlock knew he had that effect on people. 

He had become so distant that he didn’t even realise Jim had reached between his legs and begun to fondle him. But the feeling was too much, as he was brought back to reality, the depression seeped back and he longed to be numb once again. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want anything; he just wanted to disappear.   
So he stood up, letting the water fall from his body, and climbed out of the bath without a word. He grabbed a towel and exited the bathroom as Jim looked on after him in surprise and disappointment.   
-  
A month went by excruciatingly slowly. Jim had stayed at Baker Street the whole time, so he’d basically just moved in. Sherlock’s constant despair didn’t shift. He hadn’t see John in a month. Somehow it was more painful than the two years spent without him before, maybe it was because this time it was John’s choice. John didn’t want to see him. John didn’t need him in his life anymore.

Sherlock and Jim got high almost every night; which resulted in the mornings becoming extremely low. Which then made them want to start using again; it was a cycle, over and over again. It didn’t show signs of stopping anytime soon. There was no more space left to cut on Sherlock’s arms, but that didn’t stop Jim from urging him on.

“You’ve got space on your legs,” He’d say while handing him the blade.

They’d spend the evenings wrapped up in their own little world; smoking and injecting. Sherlock began to let Jim touch him more. He’d run his fingers up his chest, followed by his soft lips, and Sherlock allowed himself to be worshipped by the criminal. It was nice to be wanted. 

“I want you,” Jim grunted as he sucked on Sherlock’s nipple. “Let me have you,”

Sherlock tensed. There was no point saving himself for John anymore. In fact there was no point saving himself at all now. There wasn’t much of him left that hadn’t been taken. He nodded nervously, and Jim’s dark eyes looked back at him readily. He bared his teeth and crashed his lips against Sherlock’s. Jim’s tongue rubbed against his hungrily and he groaned as he rubbed their crotches together once.

Then they parted. Jim turned to the coffee table and set up two neat lines of coke.

“Might as well add to the experience,” Jim quickly sunk to his knees and sniffed up the line rapidly. Sherlock did the same. He began to feel a bit drowsy but that was soon pushed to one side as Jim wrapped a hand around Sherlock’s scarred wrist and pulled him up.

When they’d reached the bedroom, Jim immediately began to undo Sherlock’s shirt. He pulled it off his shoulders frantically and then started fiddling with the belt. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to do; he couldn’t take off Jim’s clothes because he was moving too quickly. He felt too exposed, they hadn’t turned the heating on in a month and now he was suddenly beginning to feel the cold. Jim pulled Sherlock’s trousers and underwear down in one go before laying the detective down onto the bed. 

“Wow,” Jim said breathlessly, “I’m the luckiest man in the world right now,”

Jim climbed on top of Sherlock’s naked form and passionately kissed him. Jim’s clothing felt odd against his bare skin and he couldn’t wait for him to get them off, but he didn’t want to say anything; he didn’t want to make him angry.

In one swift movement, Jim pulled Sherlock’s legs apart. Sherlock had no sense of dignity as his crotch was displayed completely to Jim. The watchful eyes burned into his body, he felt tears begin to fill up in his eyes. He felt useless. He wished he could just enjoy this, it was what he wanted, but it wasn’t the way he wanted it.   
But it was too late. Sherlock let it happen. Jim never removed his clothes. He felt sick when Jim pressed his tongue to his entrance. He tried to concentrate on the feeling, it was meant to feel nice, but Sherlock’s mind was in such a dark place he couldn’t focus on anything. Once again, he was becoming numb. His eyes locked to the ceiling as Jim prepared him thoroughly, with his tongue and his fingers, while holding on with a tight grip to his thighs, pushing them up so more of him was exposed.   
Jim slicked himself up and lay down on the bed next to Sherlock. The daunting knowledge of what Jim expected him to do made the tears fall freely down his face. But for some reason Jim didn’t stop urging him on.

Sherlock felt too weak as he lifted himself up and straddled Jim’s body. He wrapped his hand around the criminal’s erection and moved so he was hovering above it.  
“Ready to have some real fun?” Jim purred. 

Sherlock slowly sunk down onto the thick cock. It stretched him painfully even though Jim had paid a lot of attention to preparing him. 

“Ugh,” Jim moaned as Sherlock’s body surrounded him, “Virgin’s always feel the best,” He grunted. The idea that Jim had done this with other people made Sherlock’s heart fall low. He wanted to be his best; he wanted Jim to love him the most. With the desire to be the best Jim’s ever had, he began to rut his hips in a steady motion. It was agonising, he thought he was being ripped to shreds. 

But he carried on endlessly. He placed his hands either side of Jim’s head and lifted his hips up high and slammed them back down quickly, causing the criminal to groan relentlessly. Jim’s eyes stayed constantly open, taking in the remarkable sight above him. Sherlock Holmes; losing control, coming undone, riding him wildly. It was what he’d always wanted.

Eventually, Sherlock began to feel something from it. Sparks of pleasure sent him breathless, they forced him to try harder, to cling on to the feeling tightly. Sherlock leaned back and rested his hands behind him on Jim’s legs. The new position meant Jim’s cock was hitting his prostate every time and sending him wild. His throbbing erection bounced in front of him as he pumped his arse on Jim’s cock desperately. 

He gasped loudly as he felt his orgasm build up. 

“Touch yourself,” Jim begged.

Sherlock obeyed. He started tugging on his cock in rapid motions as he bounced up and down. 

The orgasm was intense. It was better than any high he’d ever experienced. His cum splayed over Jim’s chest, some even ending up near his mouth. Even after he began getting extremely sensitive, he kept moving on Jim’s cock, dying to bring him to release. And when he did, Jim let out a blaring moan as he thrust his hips up to meet Sherlock’s.   
Sherlock could feel Jim’s cum fill up his arse to the brink. He could still feel Jim pulsing inside of him as his climax came to an end.

“That was the best sex I’ve ever had,” Jim breathed heavily as he pulled Sherlock down to lay on top of him. Sherlock didn’t want to move, he wanted to have Jim inside him forever; he couldn’t bear the thought of being empty.

As tears once again began to dampen Sherlock’s face, for the first time in a long, long time, he let himself smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments would be appreciated. Thanks for reading. :-)
> 
> I'll hopefully get the next chapter up within the next week.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers the state Sherlock has got himself into.

John had been enjoying his time with Mary; he was content knowing that in a few months’ time, they would have created a family together. Mary was beautiful and sweet, and everything he’d ever dreamed of. But as they sit together on the couch casually watching daytime television, John couldn’t get rid of the nagging feeling that plagued him. He needed to see Sherlock, it had been too long, and he hadn’t been answering his mobile. God knows what he’s probably got himself into. 

“I’m gonna go see how Sherlock’s doing,” John told Mary, before shuffling off the couch and going to grab his coat.

“Oh that’s good; I almost forgot you were friends. You should’ve been to see him earlier,” Mary replied as she looked up at him. “I thought you would have been straight after him after he left the wedding without saying goodbye,” 

“He’s not a child, although he does act like it sometimes. He can look after himself,” John sighed as he pulled his coat on, “And I think he needed some time… alone,”

John leaned down to kiss Mary softly. Then he took his keys and made his way over to Baker Street.

-

He felt a sense of nostalgia as he looked up at the flat in front of him, which only got stronger as he made his way inside. All the memories of the cases him and Sherlock had been on made him want to tear up a bit, especially as he walked down the hallway before the stairs, where they’d collapsed, short of breath and laughing. But he also remembers the painful moment, two years ago, when he was met here by Mrs Hudson, and he automatically knew that Sherlock was in danger. 

He took a deep breath and shook his head, trying to forget everything he went through after Sherlock faked his suicide. It was such a bad time for him that it feels like someone has stabbed him in the chest every time he thinks about it. The loneliness, the despair, the depression; it was all so agonising. But then thank god Mary came along and saved him. For all he knew he could have killed himself if she hadn’t come into his life. 

However, the loneliness he felt straight after Sherlock’s death was nothing compared to the way Sherlock must have felt. He had absolutely no one; for his own safety he had to be alone. They hadn’t spoken about what went on for Sherlock during them two years. It had always been about John and Mary and how his life had changed. It was almost as if Sherlock genuinely did die that time John saw his body fall from the rooftop. 

The thought of Sherlock being alone made him feel incredibly guilty, and that’s what pushed him to hurry up the stairs. He’d finally realised how much he’d missed seeing Sherlock. 

As he opened the door to the flat, it was quiet. John began to feel a bit nervous when he realised there was no sign of Sherlock in the living room or kitchen. The last bet was the bedroom, but before he could go to see if he was in there, something on the table caught his eye. 

He didn’t even realise he wasn’t breathing before he let out a sharp intake of breath. On the coffee table was a large packet of a white powdery substance, along with syringes. Razor blades crisped with blood were lying next to red stained bandages. John stared for a few long seconds, unable to comprehend the state that Sherlock must be in. He cursed himself for not coming to see him sooner, he was an idiot to believe this wouldn’t happen, he knew Sherlock’s history and he knew how fragile he had become before the wedding.  
He quickly turned towards the bedroom door. He couldn’t shift the image of Sherlock lying lifeless on the bed, covered in his own blood, dead.  
“Sherlock!” he shouted as had a quick check in the bathroom before grasping bedroom door handle and opening it. 

He wasn’t dead, but it was close enough. 

Sherlock was huddled in on himself, grasping tightly onto the duvet covers pooled in front of him. His arms were red and sore, and John was well aware some of the cuts should have been stitched. But that wasn’t what scared him the most. Even though Sherlock had very long limbs and was always relatively taller than everyone else, he looked tiny underneath the predatory grasp of the one and only, Jim Moriarty. 

John was succumbed with confusion, anger and resentment. He understood that Sherlock had been feeling low, but he didn’t think it would get so bad that he ended up in bed with one of the most dangerous men in the world.

“Join in if you want,” Moriarty smirked as he looked up from a sleeping Sherlock. “Doesn’t he just look so beautiful?” he said as he ran his hand over the mess of curls.

John was trying all he could to compose himself and not think about what might have happened between them the night before, even though judging by the state of them both and the lack of clothing, he knew exactly what had happened. He stood there with his fists clenched tightly and his teeth gritted behind his thin lips.

“I think I wore him out last night… well, then again, I think he wore himself out, he was very eager. You should have seen him, you’d have been so proud,” Moriarty ran his hands down Sherlock’s arm. “He was such a tense virgin when he was with you, I’ve finally broke him out of his shell-,”

John charged for him, raising his fist up high and smacking it against the criminal’s jaw. He grunted in pain as John grabbed his hair and started to pull him away from Sherlock.

“Get the fuck off him!” John shouted demandingly. But his grip loosened as he noticed Sherlock begin to stir. Moriarty shoved John’s hands away and his smug expression turned soft as he started stroking Sherlock’s cheek. 

“You have a visitor, darling.” Moriarty whispered in his ear. Sherlock’s eyes opened swiftly, and as he looked up to see John standing by the bed with a look of utter repulsion on his face, his jaw dropped.

“J-John?” he stuttered as he quickly tried to cover his arms up. His cheeks turned red as he tried to snuffle away from Moriarty’s grip.

“How could you do this?” John spoke through his teeth. “You could have called me. I would have helped you,” John eyes began to fill.

Sherlock didn’t know what to say, he just sat up and held his head in his hands. He could tell Moriarty was smirking at John, as if this was his plan all along. The bedroom door slammed shut after a few seconds, and John was gone. Sherlock heard John’s footsteps stop as he got to the living room so he assumed John was willing to wait for him to look a bit more presentable and then they could talk. 

“Well he woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, guess he’s not as lucky as me,” Jim said seductively as he pulled the duvet down, uncovering Sherlock’s naked form. Sherlock felt so vulnerable and exposed, he wanted to disappear again. 

Jim trailed his hand over Sherlock’s flaccid cock and then started fondling his balls gently. His lips sucked along Sherlock’s neck before he was pushed away.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispered as he climbed out of bed and searched the floor for his underwear while Jim watched keenly. Jim spoke just before the detective left the bedroom with his robe on. 

“Just remember who’s been here for you,” He said without looking at Sherlock, “He doesn’t love you, he never will. Not the way I love you,”

Sherlock left before he could hear another word.

-

“I was in a bad place,” Sherlock began as he walked slowly into the living room to see John sitting in his chair with his eyes adverted towards the coffee table. 

“So was I,” John stated deeply. “We’ve both been in bad places. Now sit down and tell me why,” His voice cracked, “why him,” 

When Sherlock managed to sit down in his own chair facing John, he could see the wetness on John’s face. He didn’t know whether his mind was just playing games with him but all of a sudden, all the wounds on his arms began to throb with pain. 

“We’re just like each other,” Sherlock swallowed hard, “He knows how to stop the…” he couldn’t find his words; he just motioned towards his troubled mind.

“Don’t you dare put yourself down to his level,” John sounded broken, “You are not him, and you will never be him. You are more than him,”

“When you were lonely after I died, you found Mary. You needed her to keep you alive. Now when I was alone, after you… went, I found Jim. It’s the same,”  
“Except my wife isn’t a criminal! She hasn’t killed people! She’s not a psychopath!” John lost his temper. 

“Little do you know,” Sherlock whispered ever so quietly before regretting it completely.

“What do you mean by that?” John furrowed his eyebrows.

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly. 

John sighed as he leaned forward and rubbed his hands over his eyes. He didn’t expect all this to happen today. 

“Let me check your arms,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. Refusing would only cause more trouble. He slipped the dressing gown off his shoulders and winced in shame as he saw the reddened cuts. He watched as John sunk to his knees in front of him and gently examined the welts. 

“Did you do all these yourself?” John asked as he ran his hand over a prominent scar. Sherlock paused.

“Most of them,” Sherlock replied reluctantly. This seemed to spark something in John. The doctor looked up at him in shock.  
“Wait… he did some of these?” John spoke in one breath. 

“Yes,” Sherlock stated shamefully. “Only a few though, he di-,”

“God, Sherlock. It doesn’t matter how many time he did it, judging by the size of these cuts, he could have just done it once and it could have been fatal. Oh my god, Sherlock, you don’t think he loves you do you? No one who loves you would ever do something like this to you,” John was speaking as though he’d been sprinting for the past hour. 

“Stop it!” Sherlock pushed John back and stood up. He clasped his hands over his ears and clung onto the curls surrounding them. “Yes he does!”

John looked on as Sherlock repeated the sentence over and over again. His eyes were closed tightly as if he was in physical pain from hearing John’s words.

“Sherlock you need to understand!” John stood up from the floor and tried to remove Sherlock’s hands from his ears, “He doesn’t love you, he just wants you,” And then everything was silent for a few seconds.

“What have you done to him?” John heard the familiar voice behind him.

Sherlock seemed to soothe slightly at the sound of Jim’s voice. 

“Just back the fuck off!” John shouted as Jim started to make his way towards Sherlock. 

“You’ve made your position quite clear, John. Sherlock’s was in such a state after your wedding with that slut,” Jim spat his words out, “I was the one who helped him!” he looked at John menacingly.

“I’ve tried to get in contact!” John argued, “And don’t you dare call Mary a slut!”

“It wasn’t enough though was it,” Jim raised his eyebrow and nodded towards the trembling man next to him. “I think it’s time for you to go now, Johnny boy, I’ll take care of him,”

John didn’t believe him one bit. But he didn’t know what else he could do. Moriarty definitely wasn’t going to budge, and he couldn’t force Sherlock out the flat in the state he was in. He felt like he had failed his best friend. He knew he needed him so much yet all he could think to do right now was to walk away. Sherlock was a genius, he knew right from wrong and he would find a way out of this. John just had to pray that he didn’t destroy himself in the process.

John took a deep breath and then straightened up. He didn’t dare take another glance at Sherlock; he couldn’t manage it. He walked out the door swiftly, unable to stop the tears flowing freely.

This was going to be tough.

-

_I don’t want to lose you again. JW_

He hadn’t told Mary what happened at Baker Street, but she could sense something was wrong as she curled up behind him in bed that night. 

_I miss the way things used to be. JW_

He couldn’t stop thinking about the moment he walked in the bedroom and saw Jim holding onto Sherlock as if he owned him. He thought about how he knew that Jim had been sitting in his chair, of course he would have, he wanted to do everything he could to destroy him. 

_You changed me, Sherlock. JW_

When he pushed himself into Mary, he didn’t feel any relief. Even the way she moaned beneath him, didn’t turn him on. As soon as his movements began to slow, Mary pushed him so he rolled over and started rocking onto him. John grunted as he felt an unsatisfying climax build up. 

_He doesn’t deserve you. JW_

He gritted his teeth and forced his hips up roughly one last time before groaning loudly and releasing inside of his wife. She kissed him passionately before sliding off him and lying beside him breathlessly. He spent the rest of the night staring the plain, white ceiling. 

_We’re both stuck in situations we don’t want to be in. JW_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't as long as I'd intended it to be, but I'll be carrying it on again very soon.
> 
> Comments make me happy.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for the shittest summary for a chapter ever.
> 
> I feel like my writing is getting worse, I apologise. If anyone wants to comment on what they want to happen in the story next then feel free to let me know because I will consider making it happen (I'm not quite sure where this story is leading atm so I aim to make it as sexually satisfying/interesting to read as possible by letting you have an input on what happens).
> 
> I hope you enjoy it though. I aim to update every weekend, however this weekend coming is going to be extremely busy for me so if I am a bit late then bare with me. :-)
> 
> Enjoy!

Sherlock awoke to find he was lying on the cold, hard floor next to the coffee table. He couldn’t remember anything about the night previously. The sound of Jim pottering about in the kitchen brought him some comfort though.

Jim must have heard Sherlock groan as he tried to lift himself up off the floor because he soon appeared in the doorway holding his cup of tea with a smirk plastered on his face.

“How are you feeling?” Jim asked bluntly as he took a sip. It took a while for Sherlock to realise that he wasn’t wearing any clothes.

“Not too good,” Sherlock admitted as he eventually hauled himself to his feet and swiftly grabbed the dressing down that was creased up on the floor to cover up. He looked towards the usual mess on the coffee table before lifting his gaze up to Jim. “Did we get high last night?” He asked in a haze of confusion.

“We’re always bloody high,” Jim replied sarcastically. “Go take a shower,”

Sherlock felt like a soldier obeying Jim’s orders; except he wasn’t strong like a soldier, he wasn’t like John. Right now he longed for John’s company. He held tight onto his dressing gown as he made his way past Jim’s watchful stare.

As soon as he was in the bathroom, he let the cotton fall from his shoulders and pool around his feet. He turned the shower on and then went to look into the mirror; and that’s when small flashbacks of last night flooded his mind. There was a deep purple bruise surrounding his eye. He lifted his fingers up to touch it gently which resulted in him gasping in pain. He wouldn’t believe Jim did this to him; he wouldn’t let himself accept it. He could have just fallen, maybe that’s why he was lying on the floor when he woke up, he could have fallen and hit his eye on the coffee table. It could have been anything; anything but Jim.

Sherlock quickly looked away and climbed into the shower, not caring that the water was a bit too hot to be comfortable. He felt angry at himself for no reason. He felt sad too, and it was troublesome knowing that he couldn’t control it. He just wanted the old time back, he wanted to be solving cases with John, running around London and then collapsing exhausted on the couch to watch films together.

He worked up a thick lather of soap and began to wash himself. His skin was turning slightly pink due to the temperature of the water but it didn’t bother him too much, apart from when he had to run the soap over his arms and then rinse it off. It felt as if someone was slicing open the cuts once again. He slipped down and began to wash his crotch, wondering if he would have enough time to masturbate before Jim would walk in and wonder what he was up to. He decided against it. He wouldn’t normally feel the need to so why did he have to now, he was perfectly capable of going without. He coated his arse cheeks with soap and then slipped his hand between them to wash himself; he always wanted to be prepared now, just in case Jim wanted him right at that moment.

But the pain was excruciating, and for a few long seconds he couldn’t understand why. He’d lost his virginity nearly two days ago; surely it wouldn’t still be hurting. It wouldn’t though would it? He wasn’t hurting yesterday morning when John came round.

He froze completely. His whole body tensed up and then he soon realised his was slipping towards the wall, so he had to hold his arm out against the tiles to make sure he wouldn’t fall. His breathing quickened as if something was sucking every last bit of oxygen out of the room.

What had actually happened last night?

He’d woken up stark naked on the living room floor, with a face that looked as if someone had taken a batten to it, and he felt as if he’d had sex; but sex wasn’t meant to feel like this. It wasn’t meant to leave him with lines of dried blood painted down his thighs.

Before he could harm himself contemplating further, he felt Jim slip into the shower behind him and wrap himself tightly against him.

“You’ve been taking your time,” Jim whispered into his ear.

“I’m sorry,” Was all Sherlock could choke out. He tried to distance himself as Jim poured some shampoo into his hair and began lathering it into his curls.

-

Sherlock needed to get some fresh air today; he hadn’t left the flat in over a month.

“I’m going out,” Sherlock told Jim as he unhooked his coat from the back of the door. He tried to avoid Jim’s gaze as he spoke, although he felt stupid for being so nervous for the criminal’s reaction.

“Where?” Jim was slightly taken aback. If Sherlock was up for going outside then, surely that meant he was getting better. That thought scared Jim. He didn’t want his Sherlock to get better, he wanted him to stay weak, and he needed Sherlock to stay with him. Eventually Sherlock would realise he didn’t need him anymore and then he’d be back to square one.

“I don’t know, I haven’t been outside in ages. It’s London, you never really know where you’re going to end up,” Sherlock adjusted his scarf and walked over to where Jim was sitting. “I won’t be too long, I promise,” And with that he leaned his aching body down and kissed Jim deeply. Soon he felt strong hands grasp at his curls and pull him down so he was sitting next to Jim.

“J-Jim,” Sherlock struggled through kisses. Jim groaned impatiently.

“Just stay here for a while, I want to kiss you,” Jim almost sounded like he was begging, and Sherlock noted how unusual it was to heard Jim use that tone. If his plan would work correctly, Sherlock would feel sorry for wanting to leave and he’d end up staying home.

Jim took in the feeling of Sherlock distinctive coat. He remembered how he used to fantasise about having the consulting detective like this; his look of authority and impassiveness being derailed into a defenceless yet alluring stance.

“We can do all that later,” Sherlock used more force to pull away and look intently into Jim’s eyes. “Later,” he repeated, and Jim seemed to calm slightly at the promise of a good night.

Sherlock knew he would regret saying that by the end of the day, but he just needed to get away for a few hours.

-

When he left Baker Street he wasn’t completely aware of where he was going. He considered going to a park and just relaxing in the most typical way possible. But with the nagging sensation in the back of his mind, he knew he wouldn’t do that. In actual fact he knew exactly where he was going to go.

When he arrived at John and Mary’s he felt an immense feeling of anxiety. He hesitated at the door, beginning to feel stupid for succumbing to this level, returning back into their life like a hurricane.

Mary opened the door, and even though she wasn’t on the top of the list of people Sherlock liked, he did feel a sense of warmth at her sweet smile. She looked shocked, but also happy to see him, however her smile diminished slightly as her eyes rested on the purple bruise around his eye. He nearly cursed at himself for forgetting about it, but it was too late now. Oh god, John was definitely going to say something. But he didn’t want that, he just wanted to talk to him the way they used to, he wanted to pretend he wasn’t in a bad situation at the moment.

“Sherlock!” She said happily, choosing to ignore the black eye. John must have heard her because he soon appeared. He, however, did not choose to ignore the black eye.

“Sherl- Oh my,” He said worriedly, “Come in,”

Mary knew that Sherlock only wanted to speak to John, so she made them both tea and then left them alone.

John and Mary’s flat was a complete contrast to Baker Street. Sherlock envied them. They had so much to live for, and here he was, drugged up and beaten. If he didn’t have Jim, then he would have no one. He couldn’t survive on his own in the flat, even though he’d spent much of his life alone before, ever since he’d lived with John, everything else seemed so dull without him in it.

John and Sherlock sat next to each other on the comfortable sofa. John was turned so he was facing him, but Sherlock stayed looking straight ahead; he was afraid if he looked into John’s eyes he would end up breaking down and sobbing in his arms.

“How did you get that?” John asked patiently as he motioned to Sherlock’s eye.

Sherlock sighed. “I’m not quite sure,” He replied. He wasn’t lying really; he honestly didn’t remember the events leading up to it. John looked at him sadly; it was painful for him too, to see Sherlock in this state.

“You know you can always stay here if you need to,” John reassured him. “If he won’t leave…”

“I don’t want him to leave,” Sherlock interrupted. He felt tears well up in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. He needed Jim and he hated how hard it was for John to understand that. John shifted his gaze towards the floor.

“He just wants to destroy you. You deserve better than that,” John stated, and ever so slowly, he reached his arm behind Sherlock and placed his hand on the back of his head. Sherlock didn’t know whether it was just a friendly gesture or something more, but even so, it was a nice feeling.

“How are things with you?” Sherlock tried to change the subject.

“Fine,” John replied bluntly, “Just, fine.”

Sherlock looked at him attentively. “Surely things are more than just fine, you’ve got everything. Your life is great,”

“No. It’s just fine,” John looked away from the detective. He paused for a few more seconds. “I miss solving crimes with you,”

Sherlock nodded slowly. “I miss everything. I’m sorry,”

“For what?” John looked at him, confused.

“For killing myself,” Sherlock replied instantly. 

John tensed up. They hadn’t spoken about this properly yet, it was too painful to relive. But maybe now was the right time to do just that.

“You had to do it,” John let his fingers entwine in Sherlock’s curls. “Why did you have to do it though?”

“To destroy Moriar-…” Sherlock suddenly stopped. Then it dawned on him once again. He’s been living with the man who ruined his life. He’d finally given in and let the tears fall. “Oh god,” He sobbed, holding his head in his hands. John immediately shifted closer to Sherlock and wrapped his arm around him. He felt skinner than when he’d last hugged him.

“It’s okay,” John comforted him.

“No, it’s not!” Sherlock almost shouted with a broken voice. “He- he was going to kill you! That’s why I jumped. He had a sniper on you and he would have shot you dead if I didn’t…” Sherlock couldn’t believe he was actually telling John this. John didn’t know the whole story before then. He was shocked into silence.

John fell back onto the sofa with his hand still resting on his friend’s back.

“You did it to save me?” John asked in a small voice.

“Yes,” Sherlock slowly shifted so he was facing the soldier. “I wouldn’t be able to live with myself knowing I was the reason you were dead. But it hurt too knowing you had to deal with  thinking I was dead. The only thing that kept me going those two years was knowing that eventually I would be able to see you again. What I said at your wedding, it was all true; I never thought I’d be someone’s best friend, you saved me.” Sherlock admitted breathlessly, witnessing John’s eyes become glassier as he spoke.

And then something unexpected happened.

Sherlock felt himself being pulled. John’s hand grabbed the back of his neck and pressed their lips together. Sherlock could feel himself trembling. For a minute, all his anxiety and depression seeped away and he felt happiness. He’d dreamed about this for so long. Sherlock cherished the feeling of John’s tongue against his. For once he was kissing out of love and not just sexual desire.

But before the kiss could develop, John pulled away with a look of worry on his face. He almost couldn’t believe what had just happened, especially as Mary could have walked in any minute.

“Oh god,” John ran his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry I really am. You’re going through enough right now, you don’t need this,”

 Sherlock felt heartbroken.

“John, please, it’s fine,” He tried to grab John’s hand but it was pulled away from him.

“I’m just taking advantage, I’m sorry,” John stood up from the sofa and paced to the other side of the room. Sherlock took that as a hint to leave. He stood up, his face distant and plain, he’d felt too much misery to be visibly affected by it anymore. He looked blankly in front of him as he tightened his scarf and began to make his way towards the door.

“If he hits you again, call me,” John spoke with more authority before turning to look Sherlock in the eye. “If you ever need me, you know where I am,”

Sherlock didn’t reply, instead he walked out the door without a goodbye and made his way to the tube station.

-

He wondered how easy it would be just to take one step forward when the train was coming. Just one step as the train would begin to pass, and he’d be gone. Everything would just end, and nothing would matter anymore. There wasn’t really any point in staying alive, was there? He had nothing to live for. John didn’t want him; Jim only wanted him for the wrong reasons.

He’d already died once, if anyone at all still did care, at least they’d be prepared now. It would all be fine, If only he just took one more step.

-

He felt into Jim’s arms as soon as he opened the door to the flat. Jim held onto him tightly and maneuvered them towards the couch. Sherlock clung to the criminal, desperate for the human contact that he hated himself for craving.

“I love you,” Sherlock said weakly as he shifted so he was straddling Jim’s thighs. He held his hands around Jim’s cheeks and pressed their lips together and kissed passionately. He needed something to take the taste of John out of his mouth. Jim smirked into the kiss and cupped Sherlock’s arse underneath his long coat.

He has Jim. He only needs Jim. Sherlock told himself over and over again.

“Let’s get high,” Sherlock breathed as he pulled away from the kiss for a few seconds. “I need it so bad,”

 Jim groaned in excitement as he pushed Sherlock’s coat off his shoulders and unwrapped the scarf from around his neck before laying him down on the couch, placing one deep kiss onto his lips before withdrawing and preparing the syringe.

“How much do you need?” Jim asked the man beside him.

“A lot. Just give me a lot, quick,” Sherlock closed his eyes and waited for the feeling of Jim’s belt wrapped around his arm.

“You look so beautiful like this,” Jim told him as he opened Sherlock’s shirt and removed it from his thin frame. He injected the detective with a large dose, but Jim knew he could take it. He knew Sherlock liked it strong.

Sherlock sighed with relief when he felt the needle pierce his skin. He didn’t need John, everything he needed was right there with him now.

“You always tell me I’m beautiful,” Sherlock smiled uncharacteristically, “Thank you,”

-

Over the next hour, Sherlock’s mood had increased dramatically.

“Nothing hurts anymore,” Sherlock breathed as he began undoing his trousers, pushing them, along with his boxers, down his legs. Jim watched him hungrily; his mouth almost began to water as he saw Sherlock lay there completely naked and open. Jim unbuttoned and unzipped his own trousers and pushed them down so they were bunched up by his knees before laying in-between Sherlock’s splayed legs and dropping kisses up his smooth chest.

Jim noticed Sherlock move his hand down towards his crotch, and as he heard the man moan softly, he looked down to see Sherlock’s hand moving in steady motions near his arse. Jim felt a flow of arousal which caused him to move backwards to admire the view of Sherlock with his legs spread wide, and his fingers moving in and out of his needy entrance.

“Does that feel good?” Jim rasped as he curled his fingers around his own erection and began pumping slowly.

“Y-Yes,” Sherlock replied breathlessly. “Give me some more,” Sherlock tilted his head towards the coffee table.

“You’ve had quite a lot already,” Jim told him as he ran a hand through Sherlock’s dark hair soothingly. Sherlock hastily removed his fingers and leaned up to capture Jim’s lips. He placed his hands over Jim’s and used his thumbs to rub over the head of his penis.

“Please,” Sherlock begged. Jim wanted to do keep Sherlock happy, and keeping him dependant on the drugs would assure him that he’d always have control of him.

Jim quickly sorted out the dosage in the syringe and was injecting it into Sherlock. He felt Sherlock smile against his shoulder and then exhale sharply. Jim wrapped his arms around him and then carefully placed him so he was lying back down on the couch.

As Sherlock lay there, overwhelmed with bliss, Jim spat into his hand and slicked himself up. He shivered with anticipation as he began to rub the head of his erection against Sherlock’s hole, feeling it tense and realise as it passed. Sherlock entwined their fingers together as Jim finally let himself be succumbed by desire and pushed into the detective deeply, earning a deep groan from the man beneath him.

Jim felt himself get lost within the feeling of having Sherlock’s warmth surrounding his erection. He soon picked up his speed as he thrusted into the arse, lifting Sherlock’s legs up high so he had a better view. Sherlock began to whimper quietly but Jim was grunting so enthusiastically that he had no chance of hearing it. Sherlock’s nails were digging into Jim’s back, unintentionally leaving scratches, but that was only leaving Jim even more excited.

“You’re so tight. You’re perfect,” Jim moaned huskily into Sherlock’s ear. The more time that passed, the more vigorous Jim’s thrusts became. But it was only after two more minutes that Jim noticed that Sherlock’s nails weren’t digging into his skin anymore, in actual fact, he wasn’t moving at all apart from the slight shifting of his body from Jim’s movements. Jim didn’t stop moving his hips, however he did slow down a bit, not fully being able to deny himself of the pleasurable feeling.

Sherlock lay with his eyes closed and his arm hanging off the side of the couch. He looked beautiful, yet he was completely lifeless. He’d wake up soon, of course he would, Jim tried to convince himself. He slipped his arms under the man’s back and lifted him up a bit and continued pushing in and out of him.

He felt the heat pooling in his abdomen. Sherlock’s arse brought him the most pleasure he’d felt in a long time. Jim’s hair had become loose and was hanging over his forehead, bouncing against the skin with every pound of his hips. When Sherlock didn’t open his eyes after another few minutes, Jim lifted his hand up and then smacked it against his cheek, urging him to regain some life. But all it did was leave a red mark which contrasted harshly against the pale white skin. In that moment, it only just occurred to Jim how abused Sherlock looked and he almost felt a pang of sympathy; however that was soon washed away by the warm build-up of ecstasy in his crotch.

Jim clung onto Sherlock’s limp form possessively as he felt himself climax inside of his arse. As he was riding out his orgasm he rapidly pulled out of Sherlock’s arse and used his hand to jerk himself off so he could watch the way his cum splattered over the appealing body in front of him. Lines of white semen were spread over Sherlock’s abdomen. It was a sight that made Jim quiver with lust so he reached over to the coffee table for his mobile and snapped a few pictures.

For some unknown reason, the lust soon turned into pangs of anger.

“Wake up!” Jim shouted, “Wake up you stupid bastard!” He raised his fist and whacked Sherlock around the face with it. Even he himself was taken aback by his sudden change in mood but that didn’t stop him from grasping his hands tightly in Sherlock’s hair. He aimed to lift him from the couch, but seeing the way Sherlock’s lifeless body was dragged down by gravity, he refrained from doing so. He took deep breaths and tried to regain some self-control. He loved Sherlock, he was angry at himself for hurting him.

Jim left the room to go into the bathroom and clean himself off. He looked into the mirror at the face of an abuser and immediately splashed water from the cold tap over it. But before he could go to turn the shower on, he heard the sound of the door to the flat open, followed by a familiar voice.

“Sherlock?”

Jim quickly pulled one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns over his shoulders and rushed back into the living room.

“Oh god,” He heard John shudder worriedly. Jim saw him checking Sherlock’s pulse and cupping his face in his hands, softly shaking him.

“Oh he’s just being a drama queen, he’s fine,” Jim spoke in a way which he knew would infuriate John. John spun around to look at him, his eyes were dark and his hands were balled into fists.

“How could you fucking do this?” He shouted. “How much has he taken?” John demanded as he dialled 999.

“I don’t know,” Jim lied. John shook his head in anger as he told the operator the address.

“You’re taking advantage of him!” John hissed after he hung up. “Couldn’t you just leave him alone and let him recover!”

“I’ve been helping him! He wanted it! He’s wanted all of this,” Jim motioned to the items on the coffee table. John felt a lump in his throat as he took some kitchen roll and started to wipe his friend clean.

“Get him a dressing gown,” John spat at the criminal. Jim hesitated for a few seconds before John darted a menacing stare his way. John found Sherlock’s underwear and slid it over his frail legs.

When Jim returned from the bedroom, he was holding one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, and he looked up to see John placing a soft kiss on Sherlock’s forehead. John wrapped Sherlock up in his dressing gown and slid behind him so he could rest his head on his legs until the ambulance arrived.

“I do love him,” Jim stated as he sat in John’s armchair.

“You have a shit way of showing it,” John muttered as he ran his hand through Sherlock’s hair.

“Oh and how exactly have you shown that you love him? And don’t bother denying it. I know you’re in love with him, it’s obvious. But you fucked off with that stupid slut while you should have been grieving for him, and now you’re stuck, aren’t you? You’re stuck because you don’t want her anymore, ever since Sherlock’s been back, you’ve realised how much you want him.” Jim looked John in the eye, “It’s painful isn’t it? Knowing the one you love is better off with someone else?”

“Better off with you?” John shouted, “He’s just fucking overdosed! All you care about is the sex! He was probably long gone before you even finished, and you know what that is?” John questioned. “That’s rape,”

Jim twitched at hearing that word.

“He initiated it!” he exclaimed.

“And you should have fucking stopped when you realised he was completely out of it!” John could feel hot tears falling down his cheeks. “I don’t want to lose him again,”

In the next few seconds, paramedics raced up the stairs of the flat and rushed to Sherlock’s side. Everything seemed such a blur to John. He could feel himself going dizzy as he saw the paramedics lifting his best friend onto the stretched. It was happening all over again, and once again he wasn’t there to stop it.

One day he wouldn’t be able to save Sherlock Holmes and he had a feeling that today was that day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading your comments drives me to continue writing this story.
> 
>  
> 
> ......
> 
>  
> 
> You know what to do. 
> 
> ;-)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a shocking revelation at the hospital, Mycroft emotionally opens up about Sherlock's tough past, and just as Sherlock and Jim's relationship begins to improve, another problem arises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a tiresome week of Uni interviews and carrying my 10 tonne art portfolio around London, I have managed to finally finish this chapter, which turned out to be about 5,000 words longer than expected. But I hope it makes up for the two weeks in which I didn't update at all. 
> 
> Adios Amigos.

“He’s asking for a… Jim?” The doctor looked questionably at the two men sitting outside the hospital room. John’s heart dropped; he didn’t even bother lift his head to see the criminal smugly stand up from his chair and waltz into Sherlock’s room.

“He’s doing well,” The doctor said to John with a look of concern on his face, “You’ll be able to see him in a while,” There was no way the doctor would know the situation  they were in but it seemed he had a hint of an idea.

When Jim walked into the room, the smug look on his face soon withered away to a look of empathy. Sherlock was lying in the bed; he was pale and there were tubes hooked up to him. It only just set in how much weight Sherlock had lost lately, living off a diet of cocaine and barely anything else had a massive effect on his health. Jim walked up to the bed and watched as Sherlock opened his eyes slightly before he noticed it was Jim and they soon widened in delight.

“Jim,” Sherlock said in barely a whisper.

“I’m here,” Jim placed his hand on Sherlock’s and squeezed gently. “I’m so sorry,” Jim was thankful that the doctor had left them alone because there wasn’t many people that had witnessed him break down before. He fell down onto the seat next to the bed whilst still clutching Sherlock’s weak hand. He pressed kisses to it, feeling the patient clutch back onto him.

“I’m fine now, It’s okay,” Sherlock tried to reassure him.

“I love you so much,” Jim confessed. It wasn’t every day that Jim felt regret for his actions, but right then, it was as if someone had a hand wrapped around his throat, it was hard for him to breathe through the sobs; he needed to punish himself for what he did.

“I was lonely too, before you wanted me back,” Jim bawled, “I can’t believe I could do this to you, I don’t know what I’d do without you,”

Sherlock looked at Jim in shock; hearing his broken voice escaping from his quivering lips made him feel tearful. He lifted his hand to Jim’s cheek and stroked it softly. The realisation set in, that this wasn’t just a dangerous criminal, this was a man who adored him, and he didn’t just want him, Jim needed Sherlock. Jim was as damaged as he was; surely they were a perfect match.

“We’ll make this work,” Sherlock spoke softly, receiving a warm and hopeful look from Jim. “I just need to ask you one question,” Jim looked up at the man nervously, tightening the grip on his hand.

“Okay,” Jim said quietly, although he wished he could say no. Sherlock took a deep breath and then looked Jim in the eyes while he rubbed his thumb over the side of his hand.

“What happened that night, when I woke up on the floor,” Sherlock asked calmly. “How did I get the black eye?”

Jim knew Sherlock was testing him. Sherlock needed to hear him say it out loud, just so he could fully comprehend what had happened, and so Jim could understand the pain that he had caused Sherlock. After a few seconds of silence, Jim let his head fall to Sherlock’s thigh and turned to face away from him.

“Jim, please, tell me what happened,” Sherlock pleaded, “it’s killing me not knowing,” He ran his fingers through Jim’s hair, “You need to say it,”

Jim’s cheeks begin to dampen; tears of guilt. He wishes he could control the monster inside of him. After a few more breaths, he reluctantly turned his head towards Sherlock.

“I hit you,” Jim could feel his voice break. He hated the way Sherlock looked at him, as if he’d just given up on him. “I’m sorry,”

“Anything else?” Sherlock asked with a hint of bluntness to his voice. Jim froze for a few long seconds. Shit; He knew. He thought if he hit him so hard then he wouldn’t remember what he did to him; at least that’s what worked with all his other victims. But Sherlock shouldn’t have been a victim, he was his boyfriend, he loved him. He didn’t want to hurt him; he just wanted to keep him. He wanted to have Sherlock there to hold onto, to kiss softly and curl up together in bed. He was treating the man like a toy.

“I can’t,” Jim breathed deeply as he buried his head in his hands, digging his fingers into the side of his head.

“Stop it, you’ll hurt yourself,” Sherlock tried to move Jim’s hands away.

“You’re hurting me!” Jim snapped back loudly, standing up quickly.

“You raped me,” Sherlock stated with his eyes closed, “Twice,” he couldn’t bear to see the look on Jim’s face.

“He… what?”

Sherlock’s eyes sprung open to see Mycroft standing by the doorway with a murderous look on his face.

Mycroft was an impassive man usually; he was confident enough to voice his opinions yet reserved enough to not lose his temper. However, when it came to the safety of his brother; there were no limits. Sherlock had never seen such a disgusted look on his brother’s face. Mycroft’s fist was clinging dangerously tight onto his umbrella, as if at any minute he was going to lift it up and thrust it through Jim’s skull. Mycroft’s other hand however, was shaking with fury and disbelief. Sherlock saw John wander in behind him with a look of guilt on his face.

After the few seconds it took for Mycroft to comprehend the situation they were in, his deathly glare towards Jim shifted to Sherlock, dissolving into one of empathy and remorse.

“S-Sherlock…” Mycroft found it hard to speak. Sherlock felt his eyes well up as he witnessed Mycroft’s eyebrows furrow and saw how he had begun to blink rapidly.

“It’s fine, Mycroft,” Sherlock didn’t know what else to say. He was so used to telling people everything was fine even when it wasn’t; it was all that came to his mind. He just wanted everything to stop, this was all too much.

Just as Sherlock thought him and his brother would be able to settle this by just talking, Mycroft strode over to where Jim was sitting and grasped a hand through his black hair viciously. Sherlock gasped as his brother pulled Jim off his chair and threw him down onto the floor. Just as his hands went to clasp around Jim’s neck, he was pulled back by John.

“Unfortunately hurting him won’t help anything,” John persuaded him. Mycroft breathed heavily through his teeth as his gaze flickered between Jim and Sherlock.

“Are you the reason he did this?” Mycroft spat at the criminal while trying to steady his breathing.

“I wanted the drugs, Mycroft. He never forced me to take them,” Sherlock told him.

“I don’t believe that for one second. From what I’ve heard he’s very good at forcing people to do things,” Mycroft grimaced as he spoke.

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Jim spluttered before regaining his composure.

“You are the reason he jumped off a building! Surely you don’t believe I’m going to let you stay with him,” Mycroft scoffed. Jim stared at him with great animosity; he wasn’t going to let Mycroft take Sherlock away from him. He needed Sherlock, and without him he was afraid he wouldn’t survive. But he didn’t know what else to say, there was no way of persuading Mycroft, there was too much evidence to support the fact Jim would end up destroying his brother; the very fact they were in the hospital reflected this.

“Stop trying to be my father, you have no control over me!” Sherlock shouted as he clenched his fists. “I’m not a child anymore. If this turns out to be a mistake then yes, you can cherish the feeling of knowing you were right, but right now, I want Jim to stay,” Sherlock demanded. Jim’s heart warmed. Was Sherlock really backing him up? After all that Jim had put him through, he was begging for him to stay.

Mycroft looked nauseous, with a hint of sadness in his eyes. As much as he always pretended to be displeased at the situations his brother got himself in, he never wanted him to be hurt. He wanted his brother to be safe and to get better, but he was a stubborn man, and it would take sheer force to stop him from making more mistakes. There was no way Mycroft would put him through that again though; Rehab seemed to make him worse last time, and it was one of the main reasons why Sherlock greets his presence with hostility nowadays. He would keep a watchful eye on him from now on; he cursed himself for not being as thorough with it as he used to be, especially when he could have prevented all this happening in the first place if only he was just checking in on him every now and then.

“Very well. But as you are aware, I do care about you, and I will not cherish the thought of burying my little brother, because quite frankly it would break my heart,” Mycroft’s voice sounded strained, as if he was going to cry. It was silent as the man made his way out of the hospital room, and John was sure he saw a tear fall down Mycroft’s cheek.

Sherlock turned away from the two men left in the room, pulling the thin covers over his shoulders and burying his face into it. John wanted to stay with him, but he knew that if Sherlock’s own brother was able to walk away from the situation, then he should be able to too. So, without a word, he turned his back and followed in Mycroft’s direction down the corridor.

In a way he couldn’t wait to leave the hospital even though it meant leaving his best friend behind. The white walls and blue clothing brought back memories of when he was in there after he was sent back from the war; before he met Sherlock. It was painful to know that if it was just him and Sherlock again, then maybe they could both be happy. But now they were apart and neither of them had the one thing that would keep them going; each other.

As John walked out of the hospital, he noticed Mycroft getting into a car. He raced over to it and put his hand on the door to stop him from closing it. Mycroft looked up at him in surprise.

“Can we go somewhere to talk?” John asked softly. Mycroft hesitated, looking away for a few seconds before nodding and ushering him into the car.

“Thank you,” John said as he slid onto the backseat and watched the hospital disappear out of view as they drove away.

They were dropped off at Mycroft’s flat; which was so clean and tidy John almost didn’t believe that he had lived there at all. Mycroft placed his umbrella by the side of the door and then walked to the kitchen area to get two glasses.

“Drink?” Mycroft asked, lifting the brandy in John’s direction.

“That’ll be great, thanks,” John replied, noting how Mycroft’s authoritative demeanour had lessened in a way which made him seem a bit more human. John eyed around the posh flat intently before sitting down on the black leather sofa. Although it would be somewhat of a privilege to live in a place as upscale as this; John understood how lonely it could get, even for someone like Mycroft who never really desired being in the company of others for too long. At that moment John realised how alike Mycroft and Sherlock were, except something had changed within Sherlock over the years which made him a little less lonely than his brother.

The flat was eerily quiet, with only the sound of glasses clinking together as Mycroft brought them over. The television remote was gathering dust on the side table, which made John wonder how on earth Mycroft actually dealt with the silence. John took the glass from Mycroft’s hand and eagerly took a sip.

“You’ve got a nice place here,” John admitted.

“Mhmm,” Mycroft looked despairingly at his glass before taking a large gulp. For a few more seconds it was silent; it was hard to find the words to discuss what had happened at the hospital, and John didn’t want to end up saying the wrong thing and causing Mycroft even more distress.

“He’s an idiot,” Mycroft spoke suddenly. It turns out John needn’t have worried.

“Yep,” He nodded. “I just don’t understand why he would sink to that level, I mean it’s… Moriarty. You can’t really get worse than that,”

“He’s going back to the way he was before,” Mycroft sighed.

“Before what?” John questioned, eyebrows furrowing. Mycroft looked at him absently.

“Before you,” He replied and John’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s why I try to watch over him so much, he’s fragile. As much as he pretends he doesn’t need anyone, he really does, especially after what we witnessed today. I just assumed he was fine lately though, I’d never have guessed that he was with that criminal, I just… I thought he was better. He was doing so well and then…” his voice drifted off.

“And then I got married,” John broke in.

Mycroft looked at him in surprise, as if he wasn’t expecting John to admit it.

“I’m afraid so,” Mycroft said quietly and then their eyes met. “So… you know, then.”

John nodded, “Yes. He came to my house a few days ago, things happened, and then that’s when I knew what was really going on,”

“I’d rather it was you than Moriarty,” Mycroft smiled weakly, “Maybe then with you he’d actually survive until the end,” his smile faded.

“This is my fault,” John ran his hand through his hair and clasped tightly, tugging enough feel a hint of pain.

“No it’s not. He was gone for two years, you thought he was dead; you had to move on with your life. Without Mary you might have been dead too,”

“And then he came back and I realised how much I needed him. Either way I would be deserting someone. I don’t know what to do,” John began to sound more distressed as he spoke.

“Does he know how you feel back?” Mycroft asked.

“I think so, although I didn’t make it all that clear,” John gulped, “We kissed, when he came to my house. It just happened, and then I freaked out, and then he left… then he ended up in hospital,” Mycroft looked taken aback.

“Oh… wow. Do you think he wanted to kill himself?” Mycroft asked rhetorically, his grip tightening on the glass.

“I-I don’t know. I suppose we’ll never know with him. He seems so dependent on Moriarty now that I doubt he’d go without taking him with him,”

“What happened when you found him?” Mycroft asked attentively. John was afraid he would ask him this. He couldn’t bear to see the look on his face when he told him but it seemed he had no other choice; he needed to know. “Tell me,” Mycroft asked again, his voice firm. John looked at him sadly and he could see the dread in Mycroft’s face.

“He was passed out on the couch, and from what I saw, it looked like Jim had… raped him,” John felt sick as he recited the memories of the previous night. Mycroft’s breath hitched and he shakily put his glass down on the coffee table.

“Oh god,” Mycroft let out a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding in.

“Jim said he initiated it, so maybe Sherlock wanted it in the beginning, but once he passed out, Jim just…kept going,” John continued. Mycroft’s eyes closed in anguish.

“How can Sherlock stay with him? How can he still want to be someone like that?” Anger rose up in Mycroft’s voice; the flat becoming suddenly less quiet yet tenser. “He had bruises over him, a black eye; he was a picture of destruction. Why can’t he see what he’s doing to him?”

“I think he just wants someone… there. He feels lost without him, god knows why,” John murmured.

“I told him to come to me!” Mycroft stood up abruptly and threw his glass against the wall, smashing it to pieces as John looked on in shock. “I told him to tell me if he ever felt like that again! I tried so hard to help him get better and then he goes and throws it back in my face! He could have stayed here; I could have gotten him help. He knows I’d do anything because I fucking care!” Mycroft was shouting loudly now, visibly distressed. John stood up and placed his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

“Mycroft, calm down, it’s okay,” John tried to reassure him.

“I can’t go through this again,” Mycroft stated sorrowfully before collapsing back down onto the sofa. John’s heart ached for the man; he’d spent so long thinking about what Sherlock was going through that he forgot how much of an effect it would have on Mycroft too. Mycroft was the older brother, the one who looked out for the younger, making sure he was safe because he was all he had. John thought back to the times he’d had to help his sister through rehab, it nearly killed him to see someone he loved being unable to survive properly.

-

“I want to go home,” Sherlock said after an hour of lying silently on the hospital bed. Jim looked at him in disbelief.

“But you need to stay. The doctors need to make sure you’re okay,” Jim told him softly as he stroked his hand.

“Why? So they can send me back to rehab and question how I’d gotten all these bruises and cuts? It’s for your own good too, let’s just leave,” Sherlock spoke honestly. This sparked a hint of fear in Jim; he’d been so worried about Sherlock’s health that he forgot that the doctors would put the blame on him, label it as domestic abuse and get the police involved.

“How would we get you out without them seeing?” Jim asked curiously, knowing Sherlock had probably conjured up a plan already. Sherlock’s eyes drifted over to the window.

“Being on the ground floor has its benefits,” Sherlock smirked slightly.

Within a few minutes, Jim had helped Sherlock into his usual smart clothing and out of the hospital gown and they were climbing out of the window.

“We’ll never end up here again. I won’t hurt you ever again, I promise,” Jim wrapped his arm around Sherlock’s back, initiating a kiss before Sherlock leaned in and captured his lips in a short kiss. Jim then hailed a cab and they were soon on their way back to Baker Street.

-

John never thought he’d end his day sitting on Mycroft’s sofa, flicking through old photo albums of the Holmes family. Mycroft had finally calmed down enough to be able to talk about Sherlock’s past.

“Not gonna lie, he was a rather adorable looking kid,” John smiled, looking at a picture of the small child with a cheeky grin and brown curls engulfing his head. Mycroft let himself nod in agreement, not being able to conceal the smile creeping onto his lips.

“He was. He didn’t have many friends, well, he had none actually, but I don’t think he really minded at that age, he was content with his own company most of the time; he could be so sweet though, surprisingly,” Mycroft laughed faintly.

“Sweet? Sherlock?” John looked gobsmacked.

“Yeah. That changed though, he started to get bullied. I think that was the point where he became more distant, when he felt… less happy. He’d spent so long thinking he didn’t need friends but when the other kids would go around in their groups and make fun of him, he realised that he was the odd one out. Everyone else had at least one friend, as if for protection. But whenever he tried to make a friend they just dismissed him, made him feel like a freak because he was different, they’d laugh in his face and wonder why he was even trying to speak to them,” Mycroft spoke sadly, obviously affected by the bitter memories. “I tried to help him, to get the bullies to stop, but eventually he just gave up and let them hate him for no reason. He pretended not to care, so I didn’t know what else I could do; but I heard him. I heard him crying in his room on many occasions, and it broke my heart every time,”

John listened attentively, blinking rapidly in an attempt to prevent his eyes from welling up. The image of the young Sherlock he’d seen in the pictures being bullied and rejected by other kids tied his stomach in a knot. Maybe that’s why Sherlock was so dependent on Jim now, because he didn’t want to feel like a lonely freak anymore.

“Ah,” Mycroft tapped at another photograph of Sherlock, this time he was older. “This was when it got really bad,”

“What happened?” John asked curiously. Mycroft’s mind seemed to wander for a few seconds before he jumped up from the sofa.

“Hold on one minute,” He said before disappearing into another room.

John continued looking through the photo album. Comparing the photographs of when he was a young child to the ones of when he was a teenager was heart-rending. The cheerful grin, with the eyes full of excitement and adventure had deteriorated into a weak smile with blank eyes; his cheeks more hollowed than usual, as if he’d had the life sucked out of him.

When Mycroft returned he was holding a folder of documents, and when he handed it to John, he could see ‘Sherlock Holmes’ written neatly on the front, the numerous stamps from hospitals suggesting it was his medical documents.

“He first attempted suicide on 15th August 1995,” Mycroft informed him. John’s mouth was agape as he flicked through the files.

“He tried to hang hims-,”

“W-What?” John heart was beating rapidly now. It was physically painful knowing Sherlock had felt so low that he thought there was no other way out other than to kill himself. If he could track down the bullies that had made him feel that way, he would, but if he did, he knew he may end up killing them.

“I heard him choking from outside his room,” Mycroft was now staring into space, “I ran in and grabbed onto him, lifted him up and tried to untangle his neck from the rope,”

John was shocked into silence.

“I see it all the time. The image of my baby broth-…” Mycroft’s sentence was cut short by his voice breaking and his eyes becoming glassy with tears. He coughed before resuming. “I hardly let him out of my sight after that. He begged me not to tell our parents, so I didn’t, because I didn’t want to make him feel worse. I needed him to trust me,” He rubbed his fingers over his closed eyes as if to force the tears away, “But it was so hard, having to keep that a secret,”

“Jesus…” Was all John managed to say.

“And then he did it again, two years later. Except this time nearly bled to death; he cut his wrists. He told me it was an accident, but I knew it wasn’t, they were identical on both wrists. I knew he just wanted to go. Obviously our parents now knew about it since he spent a month in hospital after that. It was like his body just shut down. I used to think that maybe he did really die that time, and we were just left with this physical entity, laying there, emotionless. I took him to rehab, he was in and out of that place for ten years before he refused to ever step foot back in one of them places again. He was still ill though, I didn’t think he’d ever get better, until you came along,”

John appreciated how much Mycroft was telling him. Over the past few hours the man had become more human than he’d seen in most of the people he’d ever met. Sherlock was truly lucky to have such a caring brother.

“I’ve spent half my life worrying that my brother’s going to kill himself at any second,” Mycroft leaned back on the sofa and took a deep breath. John saw the man relax; he must have kept all of this locked up inside for too long, it was like this was the first time Mycroft had actually spoken to anyone about what him and Sherlock had gone through.

“Thank you for telling me all this,” John said.

 -

~ One week later ~

Sherlock felt as if he was trapped in a glass box; he could witness life going on around him, such as the affection in the body language of the families, the perplexity in the eyes of the children and the wisdom in the elderly. He could see how they’d communicate, actually enjoying the company. Sherlock could see all this happening around him, yet he felt as if he was stuck, like there was no way to break through the glass and allow himself to feel human again. Everything was a constant haze of dreariness in his mind, and there was always that heavy feeling in his heart as if there was a wound in it that would never heal.

He could feel Jim’s hand creep into his as they sat together on the bench. Jim had developed the habit of sensing exactly when Sherlock’s depression had become unbearable, which was basically all the time nowadays. He entwined their fingers together and squeezed softly as if to assure him that he knew things weren’t good for him at that moment, but he was there for him. It was surprising to Jim how much sentiment had been affecting him lately. This wasn’t the way he used to be; cold, distant yet desperate for the thrill of danger. Exactly the way Sherlock used to be. But there was something about Sherlock that was changing him. Of course he still had the occasional urge to put them in a dangerous situation, just so Sherlock would still be aware of who he really needed; but now he knew when it would get too far.

He felt a tinge of relief when Sherlock returned the squeeze, so Jim let himself run his thumb over the side of the man’s hand, in the way that always comforted him.

The sun was shining brightly but they stayed in the shade, even though it was rare that there would be such beautiful days like this. Neither of them really knew what beautiful was anymore. Jim stopped calling Sherlock beautiful after that night. It seemed like an unspoken agreement between the two; let them memories fade.

“We probably look so odd,” Sherlock spoke through the faint sound of people talking in the distance. He looked towards Jim. “Sitting here in the shade with our long coats, pale as corpses, looking as if we’re planning the murders of civilians,”

“I think we look quirky,” Jim replied, before returning Sherlock’s gaze and letting out a small laugh. Jim’s eyes drifted down to admire Sherlock’s full lips. “Can I kiss you?” he asked with a fond smile. He could see Sherlock’s eyes quickly dart around the park as if to check that they weren’t being watched, not that it would have mattered anyway, but he seemed a bit more self-conscious lately and any sign of disapproval from any passer-by would have affected him more than usual. Once he was satisfied with his surroundings, he leaned his head to the side and pressed his lips softly against Jim’s. As Jim moved his arm behind Sherlock’s back and curled his hand around his shoulder to pull him closer, he felt Sherlock relax into the kiss, sliding his leg up Jim’s knee so he almost ending up sitting on his lap. But when they pulled apart, Sherlock quickly removed himself, the corners of his mouth upturning shyly when he realised how lost in the kiss he’d become.

“I’m sorry,” Jim said.

“Let’s go home,” Sherlock announced, promptly standing up while still clutching Jim’s hand. Jim sighed and let the man take him back to the flat. Every time Jim said sorry, Sherlock was reminded of what he was saying sorry for; and it was too much to think about without leaving him with a gaping hole in his heart.

When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock immediately went over to the windows and pulled the curtains apart to let the sunlight into the room. Jim closed the door and watched as Sherlock admired the way the rays of light illuminated the couch and left lines across the floor. It was time to let a bit of brightness into their lives. Jim felt his coat slip off his shoulders and then the feeling of Sherlock undoing he buttons on his blazer.

“Sherlock…” Jim said quietly, unsure of what Sherlock was intending to happen next; he assumed he wouldn’t want to go all the way again, for a while.

“No drugs, no razors, just us,” Sherlock spoke soothingly as he pulled Jim’s shirt over his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. “Slow and gentle, show me how much you love me,”

Jim lifted Sherlock’s chin and let their lips collide; cherishing the warm feeling of their tongues pressed together. He took Sherlock’s shirt off too, running his hands over the scarred arms and trailing the kiss down the side of his neck. Sherlock felt thin and frail beneath Jim’s fingertips, an image of how the man felt on the inside. Jim slowly moved him over to the couch and laid him down, holding him steady until he heard Sherlock sigh in ease.

The warm sunlight radiated over Sherlock’s delicate skin, leaving a honey coloured tone on the paleness of his body. Jim unbuckled his belt, trying to do it as quietly as possible, knowing that the sound of the metal triggered despondent memories for Sherlock. He removed his trousers as Sherlock lay with one arm behind his head and his eyes closed; Jim focused on the steady rise and fall of the man’s chest, constantly reminding himself that Sherlock was conscious.

Once he’d relieved Sherlock of his trousers, he trailed his fingertips over the man’s stomach, watching as the muscles tensed before he fiddled gently with the waistband of his underwear, which was cupping the bulge beneath it snugly. The sound of Sherlock letting out a small whimper as he led his finger over the shape of his erection under the thin fabric caused Jim to quiver in pleasure.

Jim jolted slightly as he felt Sherlock’s hands pushing back on his chest; he felt a sudden rush of fear, thinking he’d made a mistake, touched him the wrong way, or if it was just too much for him. But instead Jim was maneuvered so he was sitting against the back of the couch; Sherlock resting with a leg either side of his thighs. Sherlock clasped Jim’s cheeks and sensually kissed him as he rocked their crotches together softly.

“I want to make love to you,” Sherlock clarified, hoping to express the difference between making love and just having sex.

“I want it too,” Jim breathed into the kiss. After hearing this, Sherlock stood up from Jim’s lap to slip the underwear off his legs and then reach for Jim’s underwear to do the same. This time they were equally as exposed. Sherlock sunk to his knees and ran his hands up Jim’s thighs, sliding his hands together around Jim’s hardness, earning a ragged groan from the man above him. He hovered his lips over the needy head of the erection, letting his warm breath excite the flesh as he clenched his hand a little bit tighter. The slender fingers around Jim’s erection began pumping slowly just as an eager mouth surrounded the head and started to suck on it.

Jim watched admirably as the man he loved engulfed him with passion; he marvelled at the way Sherlock’s back was arched inwardly so his arse protruded out perfectly, and the way he had his legs spread apart to keep him steady, making Jim wish he had some way of seeing how Sherlock looked from the back, knowing his position would mean his arse cheeks were spread, leaving Sherlock’s puckered hole out in the open. The image of this made Jim’s erection pulse sinfully in Sherlock’s mouth; just before Sherlock hollowed his cheeks as he lifted his mouth up to the top of the hardness to dip his tongue into the slit. This sent a spasm through Jim’s body, almost bringing him to the brink of an orgasm, so he gently rubbed his hand over Sherlock’s cheek which spurred him to look up and see the want in Jim’s eyes.

Sherlock swirled his tongue one last time around Jim’s erection before releasing it and moving back to his position on his lap. Sherlock’s lips were darkened and wet with saliva, which was soon sucked off by Jim’s own mouth.

Jim slipped three of his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth, watching intently as the glorious man sucked on them delicately; the view in front of him elevated by the way the sunlight caressed the pale skin creating a warm atmosphere and cast shadows around them. He enjoyed the roughness of Sherlock’s tongue on his fingers, yet also the subtleness of his hips grinding against his own.

The eye contact was important; just so they both were comforted by knowing they were completely there, in the moment; together.

Sherlock shuffled forward so his body was pressed against Jim’s chest, which enabled Jim to have better access to his backside. Jim left kisses over Sherlock’s chest as he carefully parted his arse cheeks and rubbed one finger tenderly over the puckered hole. Sherlock had a dazed look in his eye as he pushed his arse back against Jim’s finger and felt it dip into the tight heat. Sherlock effusively splayed his hands over Jim’s shoulders and whimpered in pleasure.

“More,” Sherlock begged, letting his placid manner disperse and be succumbed by an undeniable eagerness. Jim responded instantly, pushing his finger fully inside of his arse in search of his prostate. When he found it, he rubbed on it gently, causing Sherlock to moan loudly and begin to rub his erection against Jim’s firm chest.

Once Jim had inserted all of his slicked fingers and stretched him enough so it wouldn’t be uncomfortable for him, he removed his fingers and Sherlock sat back down on his thighs.

“I love you,” Sherlock said before leaning in to kiss Jim passionately. As he did so, he parted his legs wider so he would have better leverage and held onto Jim’s slick erection before guiding it towards his prepared hole and sinking down on it slowly. Their kiss paused as their lips parted and released gasps into each other’s mouths. Sherlock let out a high pitched whimper as the cock brushed against his prostate with the first thrust.

Sherlock was able to go at his own pace, slowly lifting himself up and down and speeding up slightly when he became comfortable enough to do so.

“You feel so good,” Jim purred against Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock was in pure bliss; it was nice to know he was giving Jim so much pleasure whilst he was also receiving it too. He could finally cherish the feeling of Jim buried deep inside him, and it felt so good, as if he could keep going all day and night.

“Thank you,” Sherlock gasped quietly as he grinded his hips down, wanting him to go deeper and deeper.

But as he stretched his arms out in front of him to grip at the back of the couch, the sight of his scarred arms brought him so much shame. So much that he began to feel sick, so he had to quickly remove his arms out of his sight. Jim moved his face from its place pressing into Sherlock’s chest to look up at the man on top of him; Sherlock’s rhythm had faltered slightly and Jim could see him with his misty-eyes attached the wall in front of him.

He didn’t look happy.

“Sherlock…” Jim held the man’s hips so he stopped moving and then cupped his cheeks in his hands, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied wistfully, “I’m fine,”

Sherlock began to rock his hips again but Jim wasn’t being fooled. He knew something was wrong and the tear trickling down Sherlock’s cheek proved it.

“Sherlock, if you’re not enjoying it then you can stop,” Jim reassured him. He was almost proud of himself for having so much control around Sherlock this time around; usually he would have kept going, because he’d always believed that he was heartless. But maybe Sherlock was changing him; maybe Sherlock had given him a heart.

“I’m fine! I want this!” Sherlock replied in frustration, which only caused more tears to roll down his cheeks. “Ugh, fucks sake,” Sherlock placed his palms over his eyes and gripped tightly onto his hair. “It was going to well,”

Jim looked at him sympathetically, lifting him off his lap and lying next to him on the couch. He held Sherlock close to him, letting him sob into his chest. Seeing the state of his arms had triggered something in Sherlock; he felt ugly and worthless.

“What was it? Did I do something wrong?” Jim asked as he ran his hands through his hair soothingly.

“It’s not you,” Sherlock sobbed, “It’s me, it’s always my fault, I’m just stupid,”

Sherlock’s words broke Jim’s newly found heart.

“You’re not stupid, you’ve not done anything wrong, you’re perfect,” Jim grazed his thumb over Sherlock’s red cheek. It wasn’t any surprise that a cloud had now covered the sun, leaving them without the warmth or light of its rays through the window.

“Just look at me, I’m a mess.” Sherlock shifted so he was sitting up and looking at his arms in disgust.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry I made you do this,” Jim ran his fingers over the cuts.

“No, I made them, I wanted to feel the pain, I’m needed to feel something,” Sherlock proclaimed dismally. “Let’s just carry on; I’m sorry I’ve probably ruined it already,”

Jim felt Sherlock manoeuvre him back to sitting upright and was about to force Jim’s fading erection into him before Jim grabbed him and pushed him back down on the couch.

“Stop it!” Jim exclaimed, “I made you a promise and I intend to keep it!”

Sherlock fell silent for a few seconds before he stood up from the couch and grabbed his phone, of which he hadn’t used in over a month.

“I’m sorry,” He mumbled, turning on his heels and walking towards their bedroom. He was angry at himself for ruining it. Everything had perked up over the past week until it had all come shattering down in one moment. He knew Jim didn’t hate him for it; but he could help the prevailing fear within him that told him that Jim would leave if he could give him what he wanted.

Jim didn’t follow him into the bedroom, and he wasn’t quite sure whether that was a good or a bad thing. In a way he wanted him to come in and cuddle up to him in bed, hold him tight and make him feel safe; but he knew that was selfish of him. Jim was probably frustrated and horny, desperate to get off; the last thing he would want is a tearful Sherlock clinging onto him.

Sherlock lay down in the bed and switched on his phone, hoping for a distraction. Within seconds, messages were bombarding his phone, John’s name flashing up on the screen repeatedly.

He read through each of the messages, and started to cry.

_I want you._

_I miss you._

_I love you._

Through his blurry eyes, he saw one last unread text, this one more recent, except this one wasn’t from John.

_It’ll get better, I promise. I’m always here if you need me. MH_

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to give the plot of this chapter away but just be warned, this may be very triggering. 
> 
>  
> 
> -I'm really really sorry I've taken over 2 months to post this small chapter, but now I've got going again I will probably find it easier to write more so I'll hopefully be posting more often, HOWEVER, just a reminder that this is exam season atm so if I do take ages to update it's because I have the most important exams of my life coming up.
> 
> -I'm probably such an unimaginative writer asking this but please, if anyone has any ideas on what they think should happen/what they want to happen in this story then let me know because being honest I don't know where I'm going with it but I want to keep writing because I've never written so much for one fic before.
> 
> -Also, I'm sorry if this fic is too intense regarding sensitive subjects but that's just the theme of the story and sometimes it's helpful to be able to write about depression etc and make it into a story because it works as a form of outlet for me. I'm basically Sherlock. Everything's all over the place atm.  
> But things can only get better, I hope. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. xxxx

Things didn’t get better over the next month. Eventually they moved on from the failed attempt at making love, the subject wasn’t brought up again, and they hadn’t been intimate ever since. There was a perpetual uneasy atmosphere in the flat between Jim and Sherlock; they still spoke and snuggled up to each other on the sofa every now and then, but they couldn’t deny that something had changed. No matter how much they tried to ignore it; Sherlock was ill, and that wasn’t something that would just evaporate over time.

Whenever Jim would clear his throat, ready to confidently ask Sherlock how he was feeling, he just couldn’t get the words out. Sherlock would be able to sense the discomfort and automatically know what he was trying to bring up again, so he’d turn his back on him and curl up on the sofa, pulling his dressing gown around him like a shield.

“We should go out sometime, just get out of the flat, go do something fun,” Jim suggested one time during the month as he brought two cups of tea to the coffee table. Sherlock didn’t bother to look up at him, only grunting quietly as a reply. Over time, Jim had realised how much he cared for Sherlock, and the prevailing urge to weaken him and be the dominant one in the relationship had simmered down to nothing. Sherlock was already weak, and Jim realised that there’s nothing he can do when he’s like this; he missed the fiery, confident genius he used to know, it used to be fun, besides the fact they nearly killed each other, the old Sherlock would never let himself get this low. If anything was going to kill him, it would be from going beyond the limits at the crime scenes, or from saving the ones he loved in one heroic showdown; not from him suffocating in a dreary abyss.

“I’m just so fucking depressed!” Sherlock screamed at Jim. “I’m just tired of everything, I want it all to stop, just fucking stop,” he smacked all the papers off the desk. Something had snapped in Sherlock, and Jim knew he needed to just be calmed down, and then they could talk about it together; but he was so scared, he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. He didn’t want to lose him, but he knew he would be able to do this by himself; he had no idea how to handle Sherlock when he was like this. There was only one person he knew of who would be able to help and it pained him to admit it.

“Just leave me, just go, I need to be alone,” Sherlock sobbed as he ran his hands through his hair.

“I want to help you,” Jim tried to keep his composure.

“They all fucking say that,” Sherlock groaned, “Please go, I don’t want you to see me when I’m like this,”

So Jim left; he left his troubled lover to get through it alone.

 

Jim was surprised to find himself reluctantly siting at a table at the back of the coffee shop, awaiting someone he thought he wouldn’t plan to see on his own accord again. He also didn’t think he’d be feeling anxiety as deep as this; he used to be so cold and unaffected, sharp and confident, perfectly capable of murdering hundreds of people without a single guilty thought, it turns out Sherlock isn’t the only one who has changed these past few months. As he sat there, looking out of place in his Westwood suit, twirling the spoon around in his mug, he noticed how even though he was anxious, it was nice to get a bit of fresh air. The flat had begun to feel claustrophobic and it seemed to get darker and darker as the days went by, but he wasn’t going to get pulled into the same situation Sherlock was in if he could help it, so he decided today was the day he was leave him alone for a few hours, maybe a while without Jim’s presence would do him some good.

Jim let his eyes wander around the coffee shop, there were couples out having a drink together; they looked happy, triggering a sense of desire in him. One day, he told himself. If only to disorientate him more, he was unable to decipher whether the man eyeing him up from another table was making him feel better or worse. In the end, the temptation prompted the guilt. There was a way out, if he just went over to that man and had a chat, maybe he could make him feel something a bit more than what Sherlock was giving him; anything was better than nothing. But he couldn’t do that to Sherlock, after everything they’d been through he wasn’t just going to desert him like that. Nevertheless, he smiled back at the man politely.

His thoughts we interrupted by John sitting on the opposite side of the table, looking at him disapprovingly.

“Is he okay?” John asked once he was seated, with a hint of worry in his voice.

“He’s alive,” Jim sighed. Now that John was here, he realised he hadn’t actually thought about how he would talk to John, he didn’t really know where to start and he wasn’t completely sure John would be willing to help him. He hoped he would though, for Sherlock’s sake.

John stared at him, his arms crossed and lips tight together.

“I need your help,” Jim admitted, picking up the spoon and beginning to stir his coffee again. He had to force himself to disperse the frustration that built up inside him when he heard John laugh sarcastically.

“Seriously?” John said with raised eyebrows.

“He’s so depressed. He’s withering away to nothing, and I don’t know what to do. You lived with him for years; I thought maybe you’d know how to help,”

“And why should I help yo-“

“Sherlock. Help, Sherlock,” Jim looked into John’s eyes. “We both care about him,”

“Yet one of us has also tried to kill him,”

Jim leaned back in his chair and sighed. He didn’t know whether he was angry at John or himself, but the pain in his chest was getting too much.

“Please,” he begged, shamefully. “Let’s just go talk to him, convince him to get out the flat every now and then, get some fresh air, and to start eating like a normal human being for once,”

Even John couldn’t pretend he didn’t see the desperation in Jim’s eyes; he didn’t want to see it, in a selfish way, he wished Jim didn’t care so Sherlock would realise that he was better off without the criminal. But his desire for Sherlock to be happy, and healthy, overruled that.

John sighed deeply.

“Okay,” He told Jim finally. He was Sherlock’s best friend, and best friends help each other out when things get tough; that’s all they were, and all they ever will be.

Jim smiled appreciatively at John, and finally his nerves had calmed enough for him to take a sip of his coffee. “Thank you,” he said after.

After a few long seconds of silence, John’s eyes stopped roaming around the ceiling and fixed themselves back on Jim.

“I’m only doing this for his sake though. I spoke to Mycroft a while ago, he told me all about Sherlock’s past,”

“Has he always been like this then?” Jim asked.

“He tried to commit suicide twice when he was younger; Mycroft was always the one saving him,”

Jim’s mind filled with flashbacks of the situations he’d put Sherlock in; the drugs, the cutting, the… rape.

“He was just tired of people using him for their own enjoyment, to laugh at and tease. That, along with the depression, must have pushed him to breaking point,” John felt tense, once again thinking about the damage Jim had caused to Sherlock and an intense fury erupting internally over the realisation that Jim was never going to let him go; he wouldn’t love him the way he did.

Jim’s hands were shaking slightly.

“What’s the matter?” John said, observing the look of dread on Jim’s face. “Can’t handle the thought of what you did to him? You’re just like them, you’re just like the people who drove Sherlock to suicide all those years ago, except you’re worse, way worse,” John spoke through his teeth, nearing closer to Jim’s perturbed face.

“John… I-I,” Jim stammered, his eyes shifting towards the coffee shop door, “I think we should go,” Jim stood up rapidly, shooting out of the shop before John even had time to stand.

“What?” John spoke to himself before quickly following the criminal.

Jim was running as fast as he could, pushing past people on the pavement breathlessly, reflecting the way Sherlock would act if he saw a murder on one of his investigations; so of course, John has had a lot of practice doing this. Within seconds he was sprinting after Jim, wondering what the hell the man was up to. It only just clicked in John’s mind that Jim was heading back to Baker Street, which was helpful because soon enough Jim was lost from sight, running too fast for John to catch up with. John knew he wouldn’t hold back when he saw Jim again, he wouldn’t try to supress the anger he felt at him for running away from what he did, he’d make him remember every little detail of the pain he inflicted on the man he was supposed to love. The anger contributed to his sudden speed increase, and eventually he could see the door to 221B, which was left wide open.

John almost collapsed with exhaustion as he got through the door, slamming it shut behind him.

“Jim! I fucking swear if-…”

“John! John, please help!” Jim shouted loudly from up the stairs, interrupting him. He’s voice was uneven and desperate, and it immediately dawned on John that maybe he’d gotten the wrong idea. In a confused haze, his aching legs hurried up the stairs, eyes shooting around the living room before a cry from the direction of Sherlock’s room caused him to dart around and dash through the kitchen and down the hallway.

He almost collapsed in terror at the sight when he entered the room.

“G-God, no,” John gulped, every inch of his body shaking in disbelief.

“Help!” Tears were pouring down Jim’s cheeks as he stood with his hands clutching around Sherlock’s lifeless body, trying to lift him to prevent the belt from doing any more damage. John quickly climbed up on the bed so he could reach Sherlock’s neck. He cursed at his hands for trembling as he tried to force the belt to loosen around the strained porcelain skin.

“Please, please, please,” Jim was sobbing uncontrollably as he held on to the body for dear life. 

Eventually John managed to loosen the loop in the belt enough to fit Sherlock’s head through. Sherlock’s collapsed onto Jim, who then laid the man down on the floor.

“Wake up, please Sherlock, Don’t be dead,” Jim placed his hands on Sherlock’s cheeks, shaking him slightly, “I don’t know what to do, oh god,” he gasped before looking up to John for an answer.

Everything had happened so quickly, and John was finding it hard to believe he wasn’t dreaming. Although, he should have seen it coming all along, Mycroft’s revelations should have triggered something inside him that Sherlock was capable of doing it again. Mycroft; oh god, how on earth would he tell him.

All of a sudden John snapped back to reality and fell to his knees on the floor, switching to doctor mode. He placed two fingers at Sherlock’s neck, checking for a pulse, and nearly crying out with relief when he found one.

“He’s alive, just unconscious, he needs more oxygen,” John spoke with authority. He moved Sherlock’s jaw so his mouth opened and started giving him CPR in an attempt to revive him of the oxygen he was lacking. Jim was in a state sitting beside them, holding Sherlock’s hand in his own, smothering it with kisses and stroking it softly.

As John continuously tried to save Sherlock, his eyes began to well up for the first time since he found his best friend hanging from the ceiling of his bedroom. He knew the sight would stay with him for the rest of his life, whatever the outcome. The sight of his best friend in one of his best outfits, the smooth purple shirt, newly-ironed black trousers and fitted blazer, with his hair so perfect he must have actually spent time to get it to look that way; he didn’t want to be a messy corpse. John could never forget the paleness of his skin against his dark clothing.

“H-his hand! He squeezed my hand!” Jim exclaimed in shock. John pulled back imminently before reaching into his pocket for his mobile.

“I’ll call an ambulance,” John stated as he began dialling 999 with trembling fingers.

“Wait!” Jim shouted suddenly. He leaned in closer to the motionless body, “Sherlock?” he said softly.

The two men were quiet as they listened intently.

“Don’t,” Sherlock gasped quietly, and the sound of his voice clenched at John’s heart. Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered slowly, causing John to drop his phone and place his hand on his cheek.

“Oh my god,” John breathed heavily. As Sherlock gradually gained consciousness again, John noticed the redness on his neck begin to lighten and the steady rise and fall of his chest bring a glimpse of hope.

“Don’t… take me… there,” Sherlock forced the words out, “to the hospital, don’t… please,” He tilted his head towards John, causing a tear to roll sideways out his eye.

“We need to make sure you’re okay,” John spoke calmly even though he knew he looked a state. Sherlock’s eyes screwed up.

“Please, I’ll just do it again,” Sherlock admitted uneasily. That was enough to persuade John, even though he knew the doctor side of him would disagree immensely.

John nodded and then looked up at Jim.

“Help lift him onto the bed,” John said as he placed his hands underneath Sherlock’s back and legs. Jim made sure his head was supported as John lifted him onto the soft duvet.

“Get him some water,” John said and Jim complied.

Jim rushed into the kitchen and filled up a glass of water. He felt like he was going to faint, he leaned back against the kitchen table and took a deep breath. The sight of the living room brought back memories of the morning, when he just walked out when Sherlock was struggling to fight his demons.

What if he had stayed?

With that question carved deep in his mind, he felt himself collapse, letting all the emotion and self-hatred pour out. He’s killing him, he told himself.

Jim’s the belt around Sherlock’s neck, strangling him to death; the drugs, the cutting and the rape, each time it got tighter and tighter, and him walking out when he needed him the most was the stool that Sherlock pushed out from underneath his feet.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is only a start to get me going, I'm hoping to make this into a multi-chapter fic. Please comment and let me know what you think about it so far :-)


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